100 Ways to Uncomplicate Your Life
by TB's LMC
Summary: LOOK OUT, WORLD! We're embarking on another 100 "Thunderbirds" stories at the rate of two per day (real life permitting) based on a list I found. You NEVER know what you're going to find in this mish-mosh, but it'll be all the characters you know and love doing all sorts of crazy things, I'm sure! Rated for whatever's to come! *insert evil laugh*
1. Ways 1 and 2

**100 WAYS TO UNCOMPLICATE YOUR LIFE**

(Tracy-Style)

_Author's Note: Some time ago I did a version of "100 Ways" for the "Thunderbirds" universe and decided I wanted to try it again, just because I want to inundate the internet with tons of Tracy stories. Let's embark on yet another 100 ways for our favorite family._

_Note: With apologies to the website "Live the Charmed Life," which I'm sure never intended for me to usurp their list for my own nefarious purposes. /2010/08/100-ways-to-uncomplicate-your-life/_

_WARNINGS: I have no idea what's going to be in these 100 stories at this time. Therefore, the entire thing is Rated M, and I will give warnings for language and whatever the hell else comes up right now, because I cuss and so do they._

_Thanks to Samantha Winchester for giving these a quick once-over for me so I don't completely embarrass myself. ;-D_

* * *

**WAY 1**

"Don't try to read other people's minds."

"What in the name of all that's holy – or unholy, for that matter – would give you the idea I wanted a _cat_ for my birthday?"

The lower lip jutted out. It didn't quiver, much to its owner's credit, but what Scott was witnessing right here and right now was a full-blown Virgil pout. With a side of Wide Eyes for good measure.

"Damn it," Scott swore under his breath as a tiny creature that could probably fit in the palm of his hand bounded across the floor of his sitting room, raced into his bedroom and ran headfirst into his ankle.

The kitten plopped back on its little tiny butt. Its eyes widened and it shook its head. And Scott swore he could see stars circling round its ears. He felt laughter bubbling up seconds before it happened and knew he was powerless to stop it, as much as he hated himself for it.

The kitten stood back up on all four paws, and promptly fell sideways, and that was the final nail in Scott Tracy's coffin. Because all he could do was laugh out loud, so uncontrollably that he just about joined the kitten on the floor.

Seconds passed, minutes, who knew. He'd scared the shit out of the kitten, who'd managed to scoot over to Virgil's feet, where it was doing a not-very-good job of hiding. Wide yellow eyes stared up at Scott, who wiped tear tracks from his face as he tried to focus on the little thing.

"I just thought you could use some company." Ah, and there was the final cherry atop the let's-get-Scott-a-kitten-for-his-birthday sundae…Virgil Voice in full-out 'but you love me for thinking of you and getting you something this unusual, right?' mode.

Scott sighed and shook his head, crouching down to be more level with the kitten. Its large golden eyes gave way to what looked like silky-smooth white fur, interrupted at odd intervals with dark orange spots.

"She's a girl," Virgil offered, crouching down as well.

The kitten took that as her cue to step out in between the two of them and show herself off. As though, Scott mused, she knew this was her moment to reel him in completely and screw him over for oh, say, the next twenty years or so of her lifespan.

He sighed again. He had to admit she was cute as hell, as she stuck her tail straight up in the air and tried to do something that resembled a horse prancing. But she tripped over her right front paw, and the little mewl of pain that she bleated out when her nose bonked on the hardwood floor threw all of Scott's big brother and Field Commander instincts into high gear.

He reached out on impulse, scooped the kitten into his hands, rose to his full height and checked her face meticulously. Only when he'd satisfied himself that she didn't have any superficial injuries, and that the likelihood of internal injuries was very low, did he realize the little thing had curled into a ball in the palm of his hand, and was purring so loudly he wondered where Virgil was hiding the other ten cats.

She looked at Scott, yawned, and rested her head on his hand, closing her eyes. Within seconds she was asleep.

He stood staring at his upturned palm with this little white and orange-spotted kitten in it. Then he looked up at Virgil, just barely catching the 'oh my GOD that's so fucking cute' look on his face before he managed to hide it.

"I hate you, you know that, right?"

Virgil grinned, the smug bastard knew he'd won. "No, you don't."

"Yes," Scott countered, turning and moving to his bed, where he leaned forward and gently slid the kitten onto it as she slept on, "I do." He rose back to his full height and studied the kitten for a few seconds before announcing, "Her name is Mackenzie."

"Grandma's maiden name?" Virgil replied, definitely laced with surprise. "That's a mouthful."

Scott shrugged one shoulder. "I'll call her Mac for short. Now. Tell me you got food."

"Of course I got food. Dishes, a collar…" Virgil's voice trailed off as he ran out to the sitting room to grab two bags from the pet store.

"Wait, a collar? Where's she gonna go on the island, why does she need a collar?" Scott asked, perplexed, as Virgil started pulling various cat-related items from the bags. "And what the hell is that?"

Virgil stopped and looked at the big box in his hand. "You, uh, have to figure out where you want this."

"What _is_ it?"

Virgil didn't say a word, he just tilted the front of the box toward Scott. AUTOMATIC CLEANING LITTER BOX, it proclaimed. SCOOP LESS OFTEN AND SMELL FRESH ALWAYS. URINE CLUMPS IN THREE SECONDS!

Scott made a face.

Virgil chuckled.

"I hate you," Scott said as Virgil walked toward the _en suite_ bathroom, litter box in hand.

"No, you don't."

Scott plopped down on the edge of his bed. The kitten yawned and used her claws to crawl up his thigh, curl up and go back to sleep. "Yes," Scott whispered as he placed the palm of his hand over her tiny little body, "I do."

* * *

**WAY 2**

"Get up 30 minutes earlier so that you don't rush/get a ticket while driving too fast/have to explain why you're late/get fired."

There was never any way to tell when you'd be awakened from a dead sleep on Tracy Island. It didn't matter how many days straight of no rescues there'd been, a time would always come when the klaxon would wail at oh-dark-hundred and you'd have to be on your feet, mostly dressed, and to the nerve center of International Rescue in less than 5 minutes.

But here, Virgil thought, as he stretched cat-like on the King-sized bed, arms and legs filling its expanse, there were no such dangers. If his brothers were out on a rescue, he wouldn't even know about it until he woke up properly and was ready to check in with his dad.

No, he didn't like coming to Manhattan for Corporation business, but he sure did like the part where he got to catch up on his sleep. Virgil yawned, sighed, scratched his belly and then flopped over onto it. Right now, life was _so_ good.

He buried his face in the large, fluffy pillow and let his legs stretch themselves again, all the way down to his toes. A couple of them cracked and he groaned with pleasure. His arms fanned out from his sides as though he were making an Egyptian cotton sheet angel and he stretched his arms again, flexed his fingers, cracked each knuckle one by one.

Yeah. Life was good.

Then the penthouse's land line phone rang.

At the same moment, his watch started beeping with an SOS signal.

And because everything always has to happen in threes, his cell phone – lying on the nightstand plugged into its charger – started vibrating so fast it took a nosedive onto the thickly carpeted floor.

"What the hell?" he mumbled, pushing himself up and rearranging his long legs so he was seated on the edge of the bed with his feet planted firmly on the floor.

First he picked up his wristwatch from the nightstand and flicked the button on the right side to acknowledge the signal. His father's face appeared in the small screen that replaced the normal watch face. "Dad?"

"Pick up the damn phone, son!"

"Huh?" Virgil looked up at the ringing suite phone and down at his vibrating cell. "Which one?"

"Either! _Both_!" Jeff barked, and then the feed to his watch was cut.

Virg frowned and picked up the receiver of the land line from its cradle. "Hello?"

"Well, it's about time!" came his father's voice.

"What the…why didn't you just tell me over the watch?" Virgil asked.

"Never mind that," Jeff replied. "Answer your cell phone!"

"Why, you going to talk to me in both ears?" Virgil asked, frustrated, but didn't wait for an answer. He got up, then stooped down to pick up the cell phone from the floor. He disconnected it from its charger and put it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Mr. Tracy, this is Lynn from Mr. Procter's office."

"Hi," Virgil said, racking his brain to try and remember who the hell Mr. Procter was.

"You've forgotten your appointment with him this morning, haven't you?" she asked, a touch of amusement in her voice.

"Appointment?" Virgil repeated. "That's not until tomorrow, today's only Monday."

Virgil heard his name being yelled from the land line, so just as Lynn was replying, "No, sir, I'm sorry, the schedule was changed this past Friday…" Virg put the other phone to his ear.

"How could you forget Michael Procter?" his father was ranting. "Damn it, Virgil, I told you I needed you to get him on-board with the latest flap changes in the RT-60 Flyer, he's going to think we're irresponsible and—"

Virgil chucked that phone onto the bed and put the cell phone back to his ear. And he turned his Tracy Charm up to times-20. "I'm so sorry, Lynn, I'm afraid my Admin did send me the schedule change but I missed it traveling," he lied with a huge smile on his face. Well, it wasn't a _big_ lie. Other than the fact that he had no Admin, of course.

"Oh, oh, uh, Mr. Tracy, that's, um…that's fine, I'm sure I can rearrange things for this afternoon, if you'll be free?"

Virgil's smile broadened. "Well, if you could smooth things over with Michael for me, I might just be able to squeeze in dinner for two at Masa tonight."

A moment of silence, and that's how he knew he had her. "I'm quite sure that can be arranged, Mr. Tracy, don't worry about a thing. I'll put off a conference call he had for four o'clock and slide you right in there."

"Then be ready to go at five," he replied. He wondered what the hell Lynn looked like or if she was even single, but didn't care a whit, because he was going to enjoy the Japanese dinner this evening, and then go right on enjoying the rest of the night like a rich young man should when he's on the Isle of Manhattan.

"I will," she replied. "And by the way, I _am_ single."

With that, Lynn hung up. Virgil stared at his cell phone for a moment, wondering who'd just gotten one over on who, then remembered his father was still on the land line. He picked that phone up as he chucked the cell onto the bed.

"…want to tell me why the hell my 4 o'clock conference call with Procter just got pushed to two tomorrow afternoon, Virgil? What'd you do, make a date with his Admin to get her to cover for you?"

Virgil grinned as he got to his feet. "Something like that, Dad. Only I didn't know it was you she was booting for it."

"Son, you have _got_ to be on-time when you're there on business, we've _talked_ about this. I don't give a hoot that I got bumped, it'll give me more time to square the blueprints away with Scott beforehand, but when you're there, you—"

"—have to remember I'm not on Island Time, I know, Dad, I know."

There was a moment of silence.

"Is she cute?"

Virgil chuckled. "I'll find out when I show up at four."

"Three-thirty."

"What?"

"Three-thirty. Not a second later. You got me?"

Virg sighed. "Yes, Father," he sing-songed.

"Enough of that."

There was a muffled voice in the background that was distinctly female. _And _distinctly British. Virgil frowned. "Dad? Where the hell are you? Are you at _Penny's_?"

"Never you mind that, just be on _time_ today, and for the three meetings you have tomorrow, because I may not be available to be your alarm clock again!"

Jeff hung up.

Virgil stared at the phone. "Well, I'll be damned." He looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost eight a.m. So he replaced the land line phone on its cradle, put the cell phone back on the nightstand and was just about to lie back down in bed when his cell signaled an incoming text message.

He growled, grabbed the phone, flicked it on with a swipe of his thumb…and saw the most beautiful Japanese woman he'd seen in a long, long time right in the middle of his screen. It took him a moment to realize it was a photo sent via text message, and when he scrolled down below the picure, he saw the message: _See you later today! –Lynn_

Virgil's jaw dropped.

He looked at the clock again. It said 8:02 a.m.

He put the cell phone back down on the nightstand and got to his feet. Well…there was nothing saying he couldn't go ahead and shower now. After all, the meeting was only eight hours away, right?

Right.

And his father had demanded he be there early, right?

Right.

Not to screw it up, right?

Exactly.

Besides…he picked up the phone and looked at the photo again…who needed sleep?


	2. Ways 3 and 4

_Author's Note: Thank you to Samantha Winchester for the quick beta job!_

* * *

**WAY 3**

"Get 8 hours of sleep per night, so you can think more clearly."

Alan rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Oh, if only it were that easy to get rid of sleep. Or the need for it. He wondered how the hell his oldest brother could still be thinking as clearly as he was, coming up with yet another hare-brained scheme to save ten people trapped in a tourist cave in Colorado.

They couldn't keep going like this; his father's voice had all but said those very words when this latest rescue began more than eight hours ago. Scott was already rotating the brothers who were onsite with him, but both he and Alan, doing his tour aboard Thunderbird 5, were still going at it, even though they'd all gotten only two hours of shut-eye before this call-out.

It seemed to be the way things were going these days, and as a result, Al wondered how long it would be before either Jeff grounded the entire outfit completely for forty-eight hours just to force rest, or one of them made a fatal mistake.

That was one of the things Alan hadn't yet had to live with. And he doubted if he ever would, really. Because no matter what happened, Scott always took the burden of every decision on himself. Even if an idea came from Al or one of his brothers, it was always Scott who took that idea and made the call as to whether or not they'd try it.

The more International Rescue helped save lives, the more, it seemed, lives needed to be saved.

Alan turned to the automatic coffee maker and growled when he found it sadly lacking coffee. Then again, he figured he must be immune to the stuff by this point, he'd had so much of it in the last two weeks. There were always the quickshots Brains had concocted, which were a mixture of all-natural ingredients designed to perk them up and keep their brains and bodies functioning.

But even that was starting to have little effect, and while young men could go with less sleep than older ones, Alan knew they were all just about at their breaking point. He listened to the tautness in Scott's voice that anyone who didn't know him might take for anger. Alan knew it was simply exhaustion.

He listened to Virgil and Gordon going back and forth about how to re-rig the winch in Thunderbird 2, and noted that both their voices were huskier than normal. The lack of any but absolutely necessary words from John spoke of how tired he was – he simply got quieter as he got sleepier. And there was strain in their father's voice as well.

Alan knew his own voice was more clipped, his words fewer; he knew his tells just as well as he knew those of his family. And he wondered again, not for the last time, how much longer they could keep this pace up.

Well, as long as Scott could still think correctly and make the right decisions, and as long as none of them made mistakes that resulted in the loss of limb or life to themselves or others, Al supposed they'd keep doing what they were doing. Never give up at any cost, right?

For the first time since his father had told him about International Rescue, Alan wondered if the cost might one day be too high, and if it might be because of something like lack of sleep. But all he wanted to do right now? _Was_ sleep.

He popped another two-tablespoon dose of quickshot into his mouth and swallowed.

If they could only finish this rescue…

* * *

**WAY 4**

"Stick to your budget."

Okay, so Tin-Tin had a little spending habit. So what? She was a girl, she lived on a billionaire's island and her father was pretty well off in his own right, thanks to his prize-winning plants and research work. A girl lives with men as handsome and eligible as the Tracys and she _has_ to look like a million bucks twenty-four/seven or she may just as well put on a _Mumu_ and let herself go completely.

She sighed as she looked back and forth between the price tags of the two François Lemaire pantsuits and shook her head. How in the world could she choose between the mauve and the ecru? She needed Penelope there to offer an opinion, but she was deep undercover so Tin-Tin couldn't even call her.

And her meeting with the lead developer on the newest saltwater-powered engine she and Brains were working on for Tracy Engineering was tomorrow morning.

"Ah, Tin-Tin, how, ah, is your shopping coming along?"

She turned to find her friend and major nerd Brains right behind her. "I'm afraid it's not going very well at all, Brains. You see, I've decided on this particular Lemaire style, but I'm unable to choose which of these two colors I prefer." Her face lit up. "Perhaps _you_ could choose _for_ me!"

And then she almost facepalmed, because what was she thinking, asking a man who could barely look her in the eye to choose her clothing for her?

"I, ah, I think A-Alan might be, ah, better suited to the task of clothes shopping, ah, Tin-Tin."

"Perhaps, but you know the boys are out on a rescue right now, I can't very well call for his help." Brains opened his mouth to speak again but Tin-Tin knew full well what he was about to say. "Penny's undercover in Belarus, Brains."

Brains clamped his mouth shut. Tin-Tin actually relaxed because to look at him, you'd think she'd just asked him to pick out what lingerie set to buy for her next night with Alan. It was really amusing to see the play of expressions on his face, knowing he was probably running a one million line equation in his head to determine which color best suited her.

"Well," Brains finally said after what seemed like an eternity, "ah, Tin-Tin, I think that, uh, neither of those quite suit you."

Her eyes widened in surprise. He had only two colors to choose from – a fifty-fifty chance – and he was clearly uncomfortable with her having asked, so what was this? Him making it more difficult on himself by refusing either choice?

"You see," he continued, stepping forward, reaching out and taking a forest green pantsuit sleeve in between his thumb and forefinger, "ah, this one would bring out your, ah, eye color the best a-against the color of your, ah, skin."

For long moments she stared at him, until she realized it was starting to make him squirm. He quickly released the pantsuit sleeve and adjusted his glasses on his face with a nervous clearing of his throat.

"Why, Brains, I had no idea you were such a fashion expert!" she exclaimed, when she examined the forest green-colored one more closely. "I think you're absolutely right, this really does match my eyes, doesn't it?"

"I, uh, think so," he mumbled, color high on his pale white cheeks.

"Then you see, Brains, you've not only ensured I will knock them dead tomorrow at our meeting, but you've also kept me within the budget my father _insisted_ I stick to where shopping is concerned. You really _are_ a genius!" With that, she wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him tightly and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you!"

It wasn't lost on her that as she picked the pantsuit off the rack, as she went to the cashier to pay for it, as the cashier placed it into a garment bag, and as the transaction was concluded, Brains still stood in the exact same spot near the rack of pantsuits looking somewhat…dazed.

She hid a chuckle beneath a fake cough as she took her garment bag and headed back his way. "All right, I think we've time for dinner now, don't you?"

"Well, ah, y-yes, ah, Tin-Tin, h-however…"

She tilted her head. "However what?"

"I-I'm just not sure I'll, uh..fit in tomorrow what with you wearing your, ah, new outfit."

Her face lit up. "Then we'll go shopping for you! Do you have a budget?"

"Ah, well, I never, ah, buy a-anything, so, ah, no."

Tin-Tin clapped her hands together and had to resist squealing out loud. "Oh, Brains, you truly are wonderful! I know the perfect place to find you the best quality clothing, oh! We'll give you a _complete_ makeover!"

So she hadn't broken her own budget at all…however, she _might_ just break Brains'….


	3. Ways 5 and 6

_Author's Note: A big thank you to Samantha Winchester for the quick beta!_

* * *

**WAY 5**

"Start saving and investing every week, no matter how little you can spare."

When we started operations, we knew there'd be people who'd need us all the time. Disasters seemed to increase exponentially year after year after year. And no matter how advanced technology became, no matter how many Third World countries were helped by nations with more than they had, people were dying at an alarming rate.

I'm not saying people don't still die. After all, if something happens faster than my 'Bird can get on-scene, there's nothing International Rescue can do, period. And we don't go out on routine calls that can be handled by local firefighters and rescue outfits. In fact, we don't go out at all unless it's truly something the locals can't handle.

And yet, no matter how much we _do_ go out, no matter how little sleep we get or how many people we manage to pull out of Death's bony clutches, it's never enough. When there's a 9.0 earthquake just north of Los Angeles, California, and a devastating tsunami in Japan, at the same time, where do you go? There's only one International Rescue. Only one Thunderbird One. Only one Thunderbird Two. Only one of each of us.

But that's why he did it. I stand here staring down at what the printed page in my hand is telling me and I notice for the first time that the paper is shaking. Then I realize it's because my _hand_ is shaking.

Then there's another hand I see snake in from the right. It comes to rest on my arm, squeezes a little, and with that small touch I find my hand steady once more. "He amassed enough for five more outfits, just like this one," I say quietly, tilting the page a little so Virgil can see it.

"I know," is his quiet response.

We're in our late fifties now, Virg and I. We're all pushing it, but we're all still strong and have our health. Dad and I had talked over what we should do many times throughout the years. Not only because of us aging, but because of how much more than International Rescue the world had needed for a good decade or two.

I look down at the paper.

Everything I'd ever suggested to him, every thought I'd ever had on the matter, every single time we spoke? It seems Father took all of it and created the solution. I'm sure he fully intended to tell me – to tell _all_ of us – about it when he felt the time was right.

But you see, one of the lives we couldn't save? Was his.

I'll never forget hearing the Mayday call from my bedroom. I'll never forget the beeline I made for the office, nor the sound of my brothers' pounding feet as they followed. I'll never forget bringing him up on my own portrait screen, seeing the fear that only his eyes showed as calmly my white-haired father told me he was going down.

The aftermath told us it had been a student pilot flying a Cessna, that hit him. That pilot and his instructor were killed on impact, while Dad's jet, with the tail sheared off, smoked its way to the Pacific. The five-second Mayday and the ten-second good-bye was all the time Dad had left. But I take comfort in the fact that at least with him, we got to say good-bye. And I take comfort in my brothers, and the fact that we still have a job to do.

And I take comfort in the certainty, as I look down at the balance sheet in my now-steady hand, that after all the sons of Jeff Tracy are gone, International Rescue, and my father's dream, will live on. He made sure of it with investments, accounts so hidden I didn't even know about them, and a computer server full of plans and instructions, referenced on this printout.

Jefferson Grant Tracy was the best moneymaker, planner and philanthropist this world has ever known, even though they don't know the half of his legacy. And they never will...yet the people of this planet will always have him with them. Way to go, Dad. You fucking rock.

* * *

**WAY 6**

"Balance your checkbook."

"What are you talking about, I went through that account three weeks ago and there wasn't a penny out of place!"

"Well, I'm sorry, John, but there are way more questions here than answers, and I intend to find out what's going on."

John threw his pen down on the glass-topped table in the conference room on the top floor of the villa. He shook his head as the numbers on the spreadsheet started swimming around on the computer screen like it had suddenly become an Excel ocean.

How was it his fault that Alan's personal piggy bank wasn't adding up the way it was supposed to? Sure, John handled basic accounting and was starting to get more into the corporate accounts for his father's businesses, but in his experience, nothing was more maddening than trying to get Alan Tracy's checking account to add up.

Which was why he'd been making Al do it himself, and then checking his work.

The problem right now was that there was nearly ten thousand dollars missing, and it had happened some time in the last three weeks. John knew that right now, at this very moment, their father was on a private line to Alan on Thunderbird Five, reading him the riot act and asking him where the hell ten grand had disappeared to, unaccounted for, as a large cash withdrawal.

What the hell would Al need that much money for, anyway? And why for the love of Pete would he do it as a cash withdrawal rather than using the American Express card and having it come through as a regular monthly bill?

To hide it, evidently, or at least, cover the reason he needed it. But a difference like that doesn't go unnoticed by the man who built a billions-of-dollars corporation, or a middle brother who pores over the details of space for a living.

John's head whipped up from where he'd been resting it in his hands, as the conference room door swished quietly open. In walked Jeff, looking...chagrined?

"Father?"

Nothing. Not a word. Jeff simply sat down at the head of the table, opened his own laptop and started tapping away. John watched carefully but couldn't really make heads or tails out of his father's expression by the time he'd finished tapping and closed his laptop back up.

"Did you talk to Alan?"

"Yes, son, I did."

And that was it. John frowned. "And?"

"And don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it? Why, because he's the baby of the family and gets away with bloody murder?" Oh, yeah, John was about ready to call Alan and give him a piece of his mind because what the f-?

"No. Because you'll find out what that ten thousand was for a couple days after he gets back from Five, like the rest of the family."

With that, Jeff rose to his feet, picked up his laptop and gave John a wink and a grin before walking out of the conference room.

"A couple days after..." John's voice trailed off as he stared after his father. "Alan spent almost ten grand and you're...winking?" he asked the empty room. "And we'll find out when he gets back...?"

John racked his brain.

Alan spent a lot of money.

They'd all find out what it was for a couple days after he returned from Five. What else was happening then? What was-?

Light bulb moment.

Tin-Tin was returning from England two days after Alan returned from Five.

Alan spent money.

Tin-Tin.

Alan.

"Oh. My. God." John grinned, leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "Well, I'll be damned. That sneaky sonofabitch." It looked like Al was going to be the first of the Tracy boys to actually do it. John chuckled. "I wonder if she'll actually say yes."


	4. Ways 7 and 8

_Author's Note: Thank you to Samantha Winchester for yet another fast beta for me. Do _not_ know how she finds the time..._

* * *

**WAY 7**

"Don't try to be friends with everyone. Cultivate closer relationships with fewer people."

In his line of business, it was difficult to know who to trust. Even putting aside the secrecy of International Rescue, the corporate world in and of itself was a minefield of potential backstabbers, thieves, spies and those who would stop at nothing to bring the competition to its knees.

That the individual entities under the umbrella of Tracy Corporation had not only survived, but flourished over the past three decades, was due to the extensive resources available to Jeff Tracy. One of these was his own gut instinct, his ability to read peoples' tells and decide whether or not he could take the next step.

It had become such a routine with him that these days it was second nature. He never even thought it through as he had early on. Frederick Jacobs had nearly toppled Tracy Engineering, the first company Jeff had started shortly after Lucille's death. Sheer luck and his ability to outthink and generally outfox Jacobs had saved the fledgling business from going under.

And Jeff had learned his lesson: never trust another man with anything you don't have a plan to counteract if he betrays you.

It seemed on the surface to be a very cynical viewpoint, but what most people didn't understand was that big business – no matter _what_ business you were in – was a dog-eat-dog world. Trying to claw and bite your way to the head of the pack didn't just take balls, it took determination and an awful lot of time.

He'd spent so many years away from his young sons after their mother had died. Certainly he wasn't one hundred percent absent, but he was gone more than he was home. And while part of that could be blamed on his inability to properly deal with the loss of his soulmate, a good portion of it had to do with the work hours required for an entrepreneur to start something from absolutely nothing, and make it big enough that it could support a family of six.

And ultimately, support a secret rescue organization.

Thirty years later, the businessman Jeff Tracy was surrounded with key people he knew he could trust. Two of those people knew that he was behind International Rescue. All the rest were entrusted with the running of the companies and umbrella corporation. Twelve people in all, outside of family members, that Jeff knew would never betray him. It taken a long time to convince himself of that, but they had proven their loyalty time and time again.

He had several friends and hundreds of acquaintances. But while they thought they knew Jeff Tracy, what they didn't know was how much Jeff kept from them. Not only about IR, of course, but also about himself personally and about anything to do with the companies that so many people around the world depended on for their survival. From the guy in the mail room in Manhattan who had six kids to feed, to the family vacationing in the Alps who would have died had it not been for Thunderbird Two. No one person was any more or less important than another, in how they were affected by what Jeff had built with his own two hands.

It wasn't lost on him how much depended on him and the companies. How much depended on every paycheck his payroll company issued, and on the secret stash of money that fed IR operations.

Life at the top truly could be solitary, he pondered as he sat behind his desk in the lounge on Tracy Island. Movement caught his eye and he got smiles from his two eldest as they entered from the hallway, walked across the room locked deep in conversation and exited through the sliding glass door. Then he heard the telltale sounds of Gordon, Alan and Tin-Tin splashing around in the pool. He knew John was up on Thunderbird Five, probably getting ready to do his daily complete systems check on the space station. He'd hear from him after that was complete.

He felt a hand on his left shoulder and looked up to find the kindly face of the one man who wasn't related to him by blood, but who was as close to him as another soul could be.

"I thought you might like an iced coffee," Kyrano stated softly as he set a tall covered cup on the desk in front of Jeff.

"Thanks," Jeff replied.

He knew that one word conveyed what the thanks was for; that Kyrano knew it as well. And Jeff knew that Kyrano's simple gesture of bringing him iced coffee was a quiet reminder that he was there should Jeff need him. For anything.

No, he didn't have a whole lot of friends, and not a great number of people he could trust with everything that he was. But those Jeff _did_ have, were worth their weight in gold.

* * *

**WAY 8**

"Don't try to do business with everyone. Identify your target client and take very good care of them."

"I'm sorry, we...we just can't."

John closed down the line and bowed his head as he sank back into the chair in front of Thunderbird Five's massive control center. This wasn't the first time he'd had to tell someone 'no' and it wouldn't be the last. No, International Rescue can't come help you, because your emergency isn't big enough.

Yes, people could die. And some probably would.

But the reality was that some situations simply didn't warrant the expense of launching the Thunderbirds, for even if they did take the call-out, chances were they simply wouldn't make it in time.

Once International Rescue had thundered onto the scene to save the day in London, people had decided that every manner of incident required their presence. Everything from cats stuck in trees to a regular building fire. From a child stuck down an old well to a train derailment. The general public just didn't understand that if Scott went out in Thunderbird One to save Sparky from a tree limb he couldn't climb down from, not only would it be a gigantic output of funds and loss of their Field Commander if something larger should come up, but it was something local police, fire or even a kid's dad could handle.

They didn't seem to get that local fire houses were equipped with exactly the type of equipment needed for structure fires, and that IR couldn't add anything to the situation that the locals didn't already have. They didn't get that if Virgil and Scott tried to bring the Mole up under a toddler stuck in a well, they'd damn well kill her before they got within a mile of her, just from the vibrations the Mole created in the earth. And they didn't comprehend that if a train had already derailed, as long as it wasn't suspended over a huge chasm or hanging off a tall bridge, there was once again nothing IR could offer that the locals couldn't do.

And so more often than not, John found himself having to explain to people that their situation didn't warrant the boys in blue. That no sleek, silver rocket plane would show up magically to save the day. That no football field-sized green giant was going to bring fifty different pieces of equipment in for something that regular equipment could do faster since they were right there near the situation.

People rather forgot that these were ordinary men with extraordinary technology, which is how the Tracys viewed themselves. They seemed to think of the amazing International Rescue men like they were superheroes, who could appear in the blink of an eye and save the day no matter how large or small the task.

The reality of International Rescue was a bottom line where financial considerations were concerned, and a line they had to reluctantly but firmly draw in the sand to say, this we will respond to, and this we won't.

John sent a silent hope into the ether that the people trapped in the ten-story apartment building in Chicago would survive, even though the voice on the line just now had made it sound like half of them wouldn't. But as John watched live video feed on a secondary monitor, he could tell instinctively that even if he'd gotten past his father's objections and managed to get Scott off the ground the moment he'd received the SOS, there was no way Scott would get there before the building collapsed, and took half its tenants with it.

As much good as was said in the press about IR, equally there were voices who blamed them, for situations such as this where they _didn't_ come racing in and do the impossible. They'd learned to live with it to some degree over the five years they'd been operating, but that didn't make the loss of life any easier to handle. It didn't make them stop asking themselves if there was something that could be done even if IR didn't take the call.

Which was why his dad's companies very often donated equipment and offered advanced training to local rescue personnel. It was why they would seek out cities to make contracts with, to offer more sophisticated equipment, earlier notifications of disasters, quicker ways to get to the victims.

But since nobody knew the Tracys and IR were one and the same, nobody would ever realize that lauding the Tracys for doing what IR wouldn't, was actually praising and condemning the same people at the same time.

And for those that died, it didn't actually matter one way or the other. But for those would need saving in the future, local authorities might just be able to do it. And if the situation was large and dire enough that the locals couldn't do it even with better equipment, then International Rescue would be there.

Nobody always succeeded one hundred percent of the time.

And you couldn't always say yes.

But, John mused, as he watched the apartment building collapse live on the local Chicago television station, if you chose to be in this line of business, it was something you had to learn to live with.


	5. Ways 9 and 10

_Author's Note: A gigantic thank you to Samantha Winchester, who basically wrote half of Way 9 because I couldn't get it right for the life of me. THANK YOU!_

* * *

**WAY 9**

"Before getting angry, ask yourself if it will really matter in 20 years."

Gordon wanted to kill him. No, strike that, he was too intelligent to actually want to end his younger brother's life. But he did want to hurt him. Okay, so maybe not hurt him enough to cause permanent damage, but…

Dammit. Gordon sometimes hated that he was the least impulsive of his brothers.

Notwithstanding the fact that Alan, while supposedly in love with and officially 'courting' Tin-Tin, had decided he liked the girl who'd glommed onto Gordon at the racetrack while he'd been (trying to) watch Alan kick some serious ass.

Which, all things considered, would've been just fine because as it turned out, the girl – while absolutely hotter than a firework on the 4th of July – was more than just a little bit lacking in the finer points of human existence. Things like…oh…common sense, for one.

So while normally Gordon, once he'd discovered blonde-haired Sasha's inherent stupidity, would've been laughing his ass off all the way home at Alan being taken in by the silky hair, pretty smile and curvaceous body, that was not the case at all.

No, Gordon had good reason for wanting to kill Alan. Hurt him. Okay, shit, well, you know. Anyway, when Al finally figured out what a dolt Sasha was – some ten hours later at a local hotspot in Sydney – he decided that not only did he need to get out of the situation, but that he was going to leave Gordon holding the bag. Or in this case, the female.

Which was why, at this very moment, he had a twenty-three year old blonde-haired, blue-eyed female seated on the passenger side of his Mercedes crying her bloodshot eyes out and impoloring Gordon to _please please please_ talk to Alan and _why why why_ did he suddenly ditch me saying he had a girlfriend already and _whine whine whine_ I can't ever get it on with the good guys.

Gordon's thumb massaged his temple while his forefinger rubbed just above his eyebrow. "Sasha, we've been sitting in front of your apartment for three hours now," he said gently, barely glancing at her. "You need to go inside. I have to go."

"Why won't you even give me his cell phone number?" she wailed, renewing the high-pitched sound that had at this point, made him rather deaf. "Or _yours_?"

And that was why Gordon had been sitting here thinking about doing Alan in. Because in the grand scheme of things, they probably wouldn't even remember Sasha after a month, if that, and in the long run it didn't really matter that Alan had sort of stolen Sasha from him to begin with. After all, when Al won a race, he tended to get…high-spirited. And while he'd not yet done anything that Tin-Tin might deck him for…that Gordon knew of…Alan could be somewhat of a pain-in-the-ass when he was riding high on a win.

But still, in the here and now, Alan had bailed on them at the club, leaving Gordon to get this girl home. And she wouldn't even get out of the car.

He sighed as she grabbed yet another handful of tissues from her purse and fresh tears began falling. There was a reason, he mused, that out of all his brothers only Alan was even a little bit close to having a full-fledged relationship with a woman. And yes, Gordon knew not all women were like this, but damn…it sure did tend to put a guy off girls completely.

An hour later, Sasha had cried herself to sleep in the passenger seat, much to Gordon's relief. He took the keys from her hand, lifted her into his arms and headed up the flight of steps that led to the small building's second floor. He found Apartment 8 and started fiddling with the keys to figure out which undid the deadbolt.

Just as he'd gotten to the last key on the ring – why a girl needed this many keys was beyond him – and was about to wonder if he should set Sasha down before he accidentally dropped her, he heard someone unlocking the deadbolt and stiffened. The last thing he needed was to find out Sasha was married, and have her husband open the door looking like the biker version of the Incredible Hulk.

But the person that opened the door wasn't a biker or the Incredible Hulk. In fact, it wasn't even a guy. The person that opened the door was a girl with long hair the color of Virgil's, pale blue eyes and such fine cheekbones that Gordon's first thought was that a simple touch to her face might break her.

She was breathtaking. And he just stood there with Sasha asleep in his arms, staring at the new face before him.

"Oh, man, not again," the girl said. "What'd she do this time?"

"Um," Gordon said, and wondered when he'd lost the power of speech.

"It's okay, it's okay, bring her in," she invited with a wave of her hand.

Gordon did as ordered and followed the girl into a bedroom, where she gestured to the room's lone bed. He gently placed Sasha atop it and stood there watching as the girl removed Sasha's shoes, pulled her purse away and set it on the floor, and shook her head. "Come on," she tossed over her should to Gordon in a whispered voice as she headed back out of the room.

"So, uh…sorry about that," Gordon told her when they got back to the living room.

"What'd she do? Drink so much she passed out?

"No, Gordon shook his head. "She drank so much she cried until she passed out."

"Figures. Girl just won't learn." She sat down on the couch, and Gordon was abruptly aware that she was apparently wearing nothing but a bathrobe. He cleared his throat as she continued. "She stalks rich people. Celebrities. She's got his insane idea that she can sleep with one of them, get herself knocked up and live like a queen on the child support for the next eighteen years."

"You're kidding." Gordon tried not to look like he was thanking every deity he could think of that Alan hadn't gone further than he did…and that he was a witness to the fact that he hadn't.

"Nope. She reads too many of those rag mags at the checkout. Your brother's been in a few of those."

"My brother?" Gordon was startled.

"Alan Tracy. He won that race that was going on in town today, right? You're his brother. The swimmer."

"Used to be," Gordon shook his head. "You're good."

She jerked her head in the direction of Sasha's bedroom. "No, _she's_ good. She can't balance her checkbook, but she finds out someone famous is coming to town, she prepares like she's training for the New York Marathon. You've got three other brothers, right? I had to help her study up on all of you, just in case."

"Wow," Gordon said. It was all he could think of to say.

She nodded. "Yep. But I'm out of here at the end of the month, thank God. There's only so much apologizing one girl can do to bodyguards, brothers and best friends, know what I mean?"

Gordon laughed. "I sure do. Where are you going?"

The question came out before he could stop it, but she didn't seem to mind. She gestured to the couch cushion next to her. "I only took this place because it was cheap. For some unknown reason Sasha has trouble keeping roommates…go figure, right? I put up with it because I've been saving to move to Fiji."

"Fiji? Really?" When she nodded he asked, "What's in Fiji?"

"The Marine Conservation Project." Gordon's eyes widened. "After I got my doctorate two years ago, I came to Sydney to work at the Aquarium. But then I met a guy from the MCP in Fiji while I was there, and he told me all about what they're doing with marine life preservation around the Fijian coast." She smiled. "They've got a project right now that, if successful, will help replenish the coral reef not only there, but be able to be recreated throughout the world to—"

"—completely revitalize the world's coral reefs!" Gordon finished for her. "I don't believe it!"

"How do you know—? I thought you were a swimmer?"

He laughed out loud. "When I was in high school. I'm big on marine research and the preservation of marine life. In fact, I run several research projects related to it, and I work closely with Troy Gatz of MCP."

"Shut _up_!" she replied with a laugh. "That's who first told me about the project! I've been going back and forth with him by email for this whole past year!"

"No way," Gordon laughed. "Okay, you don't even sound Australian, where are you from, anyway?"

"Nope, not Aussie, though I admit to having picked up some of their words," she replied, then held her hand out to him. "Tabitha McGregor, Doctor of Aquaculture, born, raised and educated in Rhode Island."

He took her hand and jumped a little when it felt like a static shock passed between them. "Gordon Tracy," he said almost breathlessly.

"I know," she grinned, shaking his hand firmly.

And that was how it began, unbelievably enough. All because Gordon wanted to watch Alan race in Sydney. All because Alan wanted to snag the girl who'd plastered herself to Gordon's side during the race. And all because Alan decided he _didn't_ want to snag the girl after all. By chance or by fate, Gordon had met someone who not only shared his interests, but was about to move to the closest neighbor Tracy Island had.

The next day, Alan was pissed off the entire flight home because Gordon was so chipper and wouldn't tell him why. Gordon also wouldn't tell him what had ever happened to Sasha. In fact, Gordon spent nearly the entire flight texting someone.

"Not Sasha?" Alan asked.

"Nope," Gordon replied, and kept on texting.

Funny how he had no earthly desire to kill Alan anymore. Or hurt him. Or…whatever. The same, however…judging by the look on his face…could not be said for Al.

* * *

**WAY 10**

"Focus on being a good person, not on pleasing others."

There really was never a good way to tell someone their loved one had died. It was especially hard if you had their dead loved one cradled in your arms, and were standing right there face-to-face with them, feeling completely helpless because you'd failed.

Scott had usually been the one to deal with it, but this time it had fallen to John, because Scott was doing his annual tour of duty aboard Thunderbird Five, and Alan had left Mobile Control to lend Virgil a hand as he tried to clear white-hot rubble away from a mine shaft entrance.

They'd seen the entire twenty-five story hotel crumble like it'd been a planned demolition, the moment Thunderbird Two readied herself to land. They'd stared through the cockpit window in disbelief, he and Virgil, before being galvanized into action by Alan at Mobile Control.

John and Gordon had become the ones to pull bodies – both living and dead – from what was left of the historic mine that the tourist trap had been built atop. And the victims were mostly dead. They knew that would be the case, but they'd gone in anyway, and managed to save three people…and remove the remains of seven others.

This was the last one John could find down there; Gordon had already returned to Two to wash up and help Virg get the Firefly and Mole securely latched into place. So it was John, with his blond hair full of soot and ash and his Nordic skin gray with dust, who stood before a man who literally fell to his knees when he saw the fabric of the pantsuit worn by the dead woman in John's arm.

"That…her…oh my _God_, _Diana_!" he wailed.

A local firefighter met John's eyes, but John shook his head. No, International Rescue wasn't supposed to stick around any longer than it took to do the job and leave. And since John had gotten the dead woman out of there, he should be taking her over to the triage area to have the locals attend to her.

But…the man before him looked so…broken. So…devastated. For some reason in his past rescue experience it'd always been women crying over their husbands, boyfriends or children. For some reason, maybe just by sheer chance, he'd never actually seen a grown man go to pieces like this at a rescue site.

Maybe just because the public were usually kept back from the danger zone. Or maybe because John and Al just weren't on as many rescues as their three brothers. Who knew? The point right now was that John's heart beat painfully in his chest when he saw the anguish of who he knew had to be this Diana's husband, from the matching rings on both their left fingers. His was shining silver…hers was so marred up he would never have been able to tell what metal it was made from.

And so rather than quietly taking Diana over to the triage mat, and letting the first responders deal with her, John knelt in front of the man, resting Diana's body on his own legs, and reached out to place a hand on the man's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," John whispered. "She was already gone when I found her."

The man looked up. His eyes were blue-gray. His hair was dark brown. He couldn't be any more than in his thirties, and what was left of Diana looked like she was about the same age, too. John couldn't help but notice how similar this man looked to his own father at that age.

Tears rolled down the man's soot-covered face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but his eyes fell to Diana's body and John could only watch helplessly as he opened his mouth and let out a silent scream that felt like a spear of agony tearing through the very marrow of John's bones.

This must have been what it was like for their father when their mother died.

This…voice-robbing pain, this uncontrollable grief.

The man reached out and took Diana from John's arms, hugging her to him and just sobbing into her hair.

John could do nothing but rise to his feet, back away, and with one last look at the man and his dead wife, turn toward Thunderbird Two.

He was quiet the entire way home. Not that this was new…he often was. But this time it was because something had happened to him out there…something he didn't even grasp fully yet. Somehow he felt he had just witnessed the aftermath of his own mother's death…or as close as he'd ever get to it, anyway.

All he knew, was that he very much wanted to go home and give his father a really, really big hug.


	6. Ways 11 and 12

_Author's Note 1: Thank you to Samantha Winchester for always dropping what she's doing, as soon as she can, to beta for me._

_Author's Note 2: Response to quiller's review: there's no telling if all these ways will be linked to each other or not. Very much like the first 100 I did, and the ones I did in another universe, they sort of write themselves. If they are linked, most times I will say something about "you have to read Way X to understand this one" – assuming I remember to, of course!_

* * *

**WAY 11**

"Stay home this Saturday and finish off that nagging chore."

All he wanted to do was fix that scratch on Thunderbird Four's tail fin. The one that the underwater cliff rocks had put there like a giant had keyed his beloved submarine. That's all Gordon had wanted to do for six _days_ now.

Well, today was Saturday and he had announced yesterday at breakfast, to one and to all, that first thing Saturday morning, this was precisely what he was going to be doing. So with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips, he exited his bedroom suite.

"Oh, Gordon, good, you're up. I need your help with the south recon unit, Johnny woke me at 4 this morning with an error." Gordon stopped with a cartoon-like screech of his sneakers on the waxed wooden floor, the whistle dying upon his lips. He looked blankly at Scott. "I've been to check it out already, and it's a two-man job. Suit up, it shouldn't take long."

Famous last words being what they are, Gordon soon found his stomach growling at the lack of breakfast and the thought of impending lunch and looked at his chronometer to find out that's because it was 11:12 in the morning.

He'd set off from his suite at 7 on the dot.

Gordon sighed as he peeled himself out of his wetsuit. He and Scott had fixed the south recon unit, which required one man below water and the other above, and so it was a job well done, as Scott's words stated precisely shortly thereafter.

Okay, so now he'd eat lunch and _then_ his beloved 'Bird would get her long, nasty-looking scratch taken care of. Lunch was great, Tin-Tin had decided it'd be tuna salad done in a way that drove Grandma mad, but which every Tracy son secretly liked better than Grandma's anyway just because Tin-Tin didn't put celery in hers! Add to that some fresh veggies, fruit and yes, a few bags of potato chips so everyone could grab a handful, and lunch was done, with Gordon's stomach no longer complaining.

He made his way from the kitchen to the hall, where he pressed the call button for the elevator that would take him down to Thunderbird Two's hangar.

"Oh, son, there you are, you disappeared from lunch pretty quick. Wasn't sure I'd catch up with you."

"For what?" Gordon kept his groan internal.

"Well, Kyrano says the two of you are ready to take your next round of aquatic food base plants up to the Poseidon Moon Colony for the second phase of experiments on growing them in water at zero G. I wanted to go over a plan with you, get the timing right, see if we can't pull off a ride on the Suez Shuttle next time she launches."

"Dad, I need to get some work done on Thunderbird Four, can't this wait until that's finished?" And Gordon absolutely did _not_ whine, thanks much.

"Well, that'd be okay, only the Suez wraps her passenger submission up at 9:30 New York time, which only gives us two hours to get your names in if we want it to happen."

Gordon's face fell.

"I'm sorry for the short notice, son. Gallagher only just told me right before lunch that a few spots had opened up on this shuttle, and Kyrano says timing's critical given where the—"

"—plants are in their stage of growth, yeah," Gordon sighed. "He's right. Okay, okay, let's go."

The elevator doors to the hangar swished open, but Gordon was already following his father to the Office.

By the time they finished their planning, they had five whole minutes to get Gordon and Kyrano's names submitted to the Suez Launch Team as passengers for a flight three months away. It would mean time to get qualified for the flight and for the time on the Moon for both him and Kyrano, and then the actual flight and two weeks Moon-side to properly set the plants up and get the experiment running smoothly.

It was now 2:30 in the afternoon. Surely, Gordon could now go and do.

"Thanks, son," Jeff said, hand on Gordon's shoulder. "Can't wait to see how this turns out."

"Me too, Dad. I'll be tinkering with Four."

Jeff nodded, face already buried back in his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard.

Gordon ran to the elevator, hit the call button, and the doors swished open immediately. That meant his luck was changing! He bolted in, hit the Door Close button, and completely deflated when a hand reached in and stopped the doors from closing.

In stepped Scott.

Then in stepped Jeff.

Gordon raised his eyebrows, his inherited Irish temper prepared to get the best of him and lay into them if they tried yet _again_ to keep him from his beloved 'Bird.

But neither said a word. They merely smiled at him and rode with him all the way to Two's hangar. And, curiously, they followed him all the way to Pod 4. And when Gordon, trying to ignore them and not to wonder what they were doing, stepped up to inspect the damage to Four, he was shocked to find there was no damage at all.

None.

As in, no scratch, no marring. Nothing.

His eyes grew wide. What the _hell_?

"I hope the paint job's to your liking," came his father's deep voice, yet said so softly he barely heard him. "It's been a while since I undertook something like this."

Gordon turned slowly, unable to hide his surprise as he stared at his dad.

"And I hope you like the patch job I did. Sanding it down took me about four times before I got it right," Scott added.

Gordon's eyes moved to his eldest brother's. "What?" he squeaked. "But…?"

"We worked on it all yesterday afternoon and evening while you and Kyrano were in the undersea lab tending to your experiments."

And Gordon was amazed. Not because his father and brothers didn't know how to do nice things for others, but because he just assumed Four would be his to fix since he was her primary pilot. And that he'd been kept from it all _day_, had been grating on his nerves…suddenly it was like it all washed away in a large wave that broke on a sandbar and doused him from head to toe.

"Besides," Scott said, and uh-oh, that was I-Know-Something-You-Don't-Know Voice, "we thought you might like to take her for a spin to test out a slight modification Brains made to her grabs."

Thunderbird Four on a pleasure-slash-test cruise?

Gordon was _so_ there.

Without a word he suited up. His father and brother did the same. And for the next five hours, their Saturday was filled with the underwater world and the Thunderbird that Gordon loved so much. And he found out, much to his surprise, that his father piloted the 'Bird just about as well as he did a plane.

"It's all in the wrist, son," Jeff told him with an air of confidence only he could get away with. "Much like painting her tail."

"Or fixing a scrape," Scott chimed in.

"Or," Gordon finished for them, "keeping me out of the way long enough for it to dry."

Jeff winked at him, and it suddenly occurred to Gordon that while Jeff might be his dad, and Scott might be sort of like Dad Number Two…the fact was, they were both also his friends. In fact, all his brothers were. He wondered how many guys could say that about _their_ dad and brothers.

* * *

**WAY 12**

"Kiss and make up."

There'd always been one rule around the Tracy household. It was one that Ruth had insisted on the first time she and Grant had quarreled, and it was one she forced her old man to follow right up to the end. She'd instilled it in her son, only needing to change it a bit when it came to interactions between him and his father…and it was something that, when Grandma came to help with the boys after Lucy's death, she'd passed along to her grandsons as well.

"Kiss and make up."

Now of course, if one of the boys got mad at Grandma, a peck on her cheek was not a problem – even though at today's heights they were bending over to do it.

And as little boys, giving each other kisses on the cheek…or in some cases, big sloppy wet kisses on the lips, which usually resulted in another round of tussling…had been a-okay. Now that they were older, however, Grandma often wondered if the boys still applied her "Kiss and make up" rule when they fought with each other.

She knew Alan and Tin-Tin did, but that was for a _whole_ other reason, and not one she cared to think about too deeply.

Scott and Virgil, she had observed, would just stay away from each other. That was how she knew things weren't great between them. And John didn't fight much with anyone except maybe Scott, on occasion, and again, they just kept their distance if that was the case. Gordon and Alan tended to explode a bit – well, Alan exploded while Gordon tried to contain the blast radius – and then Alan would stalk off and pout.

This she had observed in the four months she'd been living on Tracy Island. And still, she wondered.

Until she _really_ started paying attention.

One night at dinner, everyone sat down together to enjoy several delicious pot roasts she'd made, a down-home Kansas farmer's wife meal that everyone tucked into with great zeal. Earlier that day, Virgil and Scott had been at odds with one another, but then…

Virgil's hand gripped Scott's shoulder. Scott turned to look at him. Scott's body seemed to melt into the chair. Virgil nodded once and pulled his hand away.

That was it. No words. Nothing more than a touch, and their problem was over.

Two days later, after a spectacular argument that had left Gordon standing somewhat bewildered in the middle of the Lounge, Grandma happened to be seated out on the balcony not far from her son's desk, just taking in the tropical sun and breeze and salty air, when she noticed Gordon diving into the pool to do some laps.

This was nothing new. She enjoyed watching her strong grandson power through the water like it wasn't there, especially after they'd very nearly lost him when he was so young. But then she sat up and took notice when Alan's blond hair came into view. She fully expected repeats of their childhood shenanigans…she couldn't help it, that was really the last time she'd spent any amount of time with them.

But Alan didn't throw colored dye into the pool like he'd done as a three-year old. He didn't cannonball into the pool right in front of Gordon to throw him off-pace and half-drown him in the process like he had at eight years of age. What he did, was put two drinks down on one of the poolside tables, toss his towel into a lounger next to Gordon's towel, and dive into the deep end of the pool.

And when Gordon came round for his next pass, Alan pushed off the wall and joined him. Grandma sat back and watched as Gordon very obviously realized his brother was there, and the laps turned into a friendly competition about who could go faster.

Gordon, of course, was the winner in that.

But Alan won all the way around, because there were no words exchanged. There was no pouting. There were two young men who climbed out of the pool twenty minutes later and, before even drying off, gave each other a hug.

And then, not one week later just before John was to come planetside after Alan replaced him on Thunderbird Five, Grandma happened to be headed into the office to see if that was where she'd left her bridal magazines that she didn't want Tin-Tin to know she had. She heard a soft voice that she recognized as Scott, and stopped with the hall door half open, to try and figure out if she would be interrupting anything if she just grabbed her magazines and left.

"We'll hit Sydney for the opening of that planetarium even if I have to triple-time it back from a rescue with you in a jumpseat, Johnny."

"Yeah, and have dad on your ass for wasting fuel."

"Screw it," Scott replied. "I promised you I'd take you to that, just like the road trip we took to Washburn, and I'll take you." There was a bit of silence. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Grandma knew exactly what they were talking about. She quietly darted into the office, but her grandsons were oblivious to her presence as she nabbed her magazines from an end table close to the door, and scurried back out.

She remembered the time thirteen-year old John had wanted to go to the grand opening of the newly redesigned planetarium at Washburn University in Kansas, and due to their father being unable to take him, he was beside himself upset.

So Scott, completely willing to incur the wrath of his father, had bundled Johnny into his car on a cold Kansas morning and driven him two hundred and seventy-one miles one-way to see it, spent the entire day there with him, and driven him the four-and-a-half hours home that night. All with school the next day for both.

And now, Scott was bound and determined to take John to something Grandma knew he'd been looking forward to, but had been worried he'd miss due to being on Five, or due to rescues. And when Scott made a promise, everyone knew that only loss of limb or life would keep him from fulfilling it. And the end to Scott's and John's latest agreement had been that promise, and then two guys just saying "Yeah."

Her heart smiled. Her grandsons had grown into fine adults, and she was more proud of them than any grandmother had a right to be. But not just because they now risked their lives to save strangers, nor just because they were each accomplished in their own fields, in their own right, separate from one another.

It was also because, in their own way, each of them still practiced "Kiss and make up." Just without the kissing.

At least, in public anyway…


	7. Ways 13 and 14

**Way 13  
**"Make a weekly menu, and shop for only those items at the market."

"But Grandma, I don't like turnips."

"I'm sure you'll like the way your aunt and I cook them, Virgil, now get another bunch of them and let's go, we have lots of shopping to do."

_Two minutes later…_

"Corn Chex?"

"Would you prefer Rice?"

"I'd prefer Frosted Flakes."

"And I'd prefer to not energize my five grandsons with boatloads of sugar. Come on, Virgil, three boxes and let's go."

_Four minutes later…_

"Well?"

"But Grandma, it's _kale_!"

"That's right, and one of the healthiest vegetables you can eat. What, you think you're going to grow up big and strong eating potato chips?"

"Well…Mom always used to let us have some…"

_One minute later…_

"One bag, Virgil, and it must be shared among you, Scott and John. None for the babies. Okay?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really, now get to it, come on."

"Yes, ma'am!"

_Thirty years later…_

"Oof! Warn me about incoming attack hugs, Virgil! Careful, or you'll break an old lady in two!"

"Thanks, Grandma."

"For what?"

"Just…thanks."

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you to Samantha Winchester for prompting me to change this one so it turned out better than originally written!_

**Way 14  
**"Ask your grandparents the best way to uncomplicate life, and try it for a month."

"How long have we been here now?"

Scott's brow knitted as he watched his younger brother shiver, try to keep from shivering, and therefore shiver all the more. "Six hours, Virg."

A grunt was his only response. Scott couldn't be more worried. That fracture of Virgil's tibia had to be causing serious trouble. He wasn't thinking infection because there were no open wounds to be infected, but that didn't mean pain and maybe internal bleeding weren't finally pulling his brother into shock territory.

"H-h-how'd we get here?"

Scott bit his lip. Virg was starting to sound like Brains, plus didn't even recall the collapse of the cave they'd been sent to rescue eighteen tourists from.

"Hey Virg, you remember when Grandma used to tell us stories about when she'd go camping with her family? Aunt Rose, Aunt Sue, Uncle Charlie?"

The dazed look was still somewhat in his eyes, but at least Virgil smiled. "Y-yeah," he replied.

"And remember that one time she and Uncle Charlie went spelunking and forgot to mark the way back?"

"When they g-got lost in the c-cave."

"Yeah, that's it." Scott was pleased. The past was keeping Virgil focused, rather than teetering him on being confounded over where he was right now. "Do you remember what she told us about how she and Uncle Charlie got through those five hours stuck down there?"

"Um…" Virgil closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and the shivering seemed to stop completely. "Yeah," he exhaled, then opened his eyes. They shone with fever, but were clearer than they had been.

Good in one way, not so good in another, Scott thought.

"Yeah, they, had a whole plan worked out for what food they'd live on, where they'd find water," Scott continued, watching his brother closely.

Virgil swallowed, closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the wall of the cave, his legs sticking straight out in front of him on the chilly cave floor, one leg in a splint Scott had fashioned.

"They figured they'd be stuck down there for a month, they were so lost. And they…" He didn't like that Virgil seemed to be ready to pass out on him. "What were they going to eat, Virgil? Do you remember what Grandma said they were going to eat?"

Virgil's eyelids fluttered open. "Um…bats. Right? Bats."

"Yep. You think there are any bats down here?"

Virgil snorted softly. "I'm not eating a bat. Besides, how w'd you catch it?"

"Slingshot," Scott replied, holding up exactly that, which he'd been working on for the past thirty minutes. "Just like Grandma said she made."

Virgil chuckled as he eyed the contraption. "Uncle Charlie wa' gonna to use his shoes to hol' water."

"Well," Scott said, making himself sounding as joking as he could, given that his brother was dropping letters left, right and center, "I love you, Virg, but I'll be damned if I'm drinking water out of your boots, man."

Virgil laughed. Loudly.

Scott grinned.

And when Virgil next opened his eyes, he looked one hundred percent better than he had five minutes earlier. "Bats?"

"Yeah."

"We got bats?"

Scott didn't answer. He thought sure he'd felt a tremor in the cave floor.

"'cott?"

"I'm here. I think the guys are on their way, Virg, I felt the Mole."

"Mole?" Scott looked at his brother. Clarity was gone and he was seriously zoning out. "Moles and bats?"

Another vibration of the cave. Either the Mole or another impending collapse. Scott moved quickly to Virgil's side, prepared to cover him with his own body should the ceiling start coming down. "No, just bats," he said quietly.

"Bats and boots," Virgil whispered so quietly Scott almost didn't hear it.

There…that rumble…the sound and the vibration. It _was_ the Mole. Virgil's eyelids were heavy. Scott couldn't help but kneel next to him and wrap an arm around his shoulder. Sometimes 'brother' won out over 'subordinate.' "Twenty more minutes, tops, and the boys will have us out of here, Virg, hang on for me."

"Boys? No boys. Boots. Bats and boots."

Scott rolled his eyes, willing John, Gordon and Alan to hurry the hell up. There was only so much more of—

"Bats 'n boots?"

—that Scott could take, no matter _how_ much he loved his—

"Boots 'n bats."

—brother.


	8. Ways 15 and 16

_Author's Note: As usual, these would be nothing without Super Beta Samantha Winchester. Man, the things she finds...thank you, Sam! Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!_

**WAY 15**

"Fill up your gas tank when it's half full."

"But I don't understand. We just ate, Scott, right before we came out on this call."

Scott didn't say a word, just re-offered the energy bar to Alan with a firm shake of the hand that held it. Alan was still young; this was only his sixth rescue. He had no military background. He didn't always conform to protocol no matter how much training Scott and his dad had put all the brothers through.

So unlike your standard military regiment, this small group of four men on the ground, one man in space, and their commanding officer father on Tracy Island, didn't always function as well as Jeff or Scott would have liked.

But Alan would learn. As he began to when he took the proffered energy bar and shoved it in his uniform pocket. "Okay, I'll get the harness on and roll with Virgil."

Scott nodded curtly and turned his attention back to Mobile Control. Yes, it was only their eighth rescue, and only Alan's sixth. But years of being in the Air Force, and way too much experience in combat situations, told Scott there were some things you just did as a matter of course when you had to expect the unexpected.

He had a way of expecting even that. He carried on his conversation with the local firefighters and building architects and put Alan's momentary lapse of protocol out of his mind.

* * *

Alan wiped the sweat from his brow. It was ninety-nine degrees Fahrenheit outside and one hundred and twenty-two degrees inside the nine-story building he was currently making his way through. He'd been winched onto the roof from Thunderbird Two's nose, and was currently making his way down to the fifth floor via a slightly unstable staircase.

The earthquake had been minor, but the rescue effort to get to the men trapped in the sub-basement of the building had required International Rescue's Mole. And Alan was charged, while that rescue was in progress, with checking the entirety of the above-ground portion of the building for survivors and the dead. Their sensors hadn't shown any life signs, but in cases where small fires popped up unannounced, the equipment could be tricked by the heat of those hot spots, to not see a human heat source.

And so, not having found anyone as yet in the office building, Alan pried open the stairwell door leading to the fifth floor. He was caught off-guard by a frantic woman dressed in a pencil skirt and high heels barreling towards him. She hit him so hard he fell to the floor on his butt, with her landing on top of him.

"Help me, please, I can't get out, please, the stairs are blocked halfway down to Four, please, don't make me jump from a window, oh my God, there's a fire down in Mr. Jackson's office, please!"

Alan brought himself to a sitting position, the woman now more or less seated in his lap, and laid a calming hand on her back. "International Rescue, ma'am. I'll be taking you out of here through the roof." After all, if the woman was right and the building's single staircase was blocked halfway to Floor 4, what other choice did they have but the roof?

"The roof? Ohmahgod, no, I'm scared of heights, please, there has to be a…wait…did you say you're with International Rescue?"

Alan pointed to the IR badge on his IR fire suit. "Yes, ma'am. Now tell me, is there anyone else in this building that you know of?"

"Not on Five, no, no, there's no one here, everyone was gone by the time I came out, they got down I guess, but I—I was in the bathroom when it hit! All the sinks and the water and I'm…please, get me out of here!"

Alan had gotten used to victims babbling out of fear, shock, any number of reasons. He largely ignored the ramblings as he got to his feet and called Mobile Control on his watch. "I have one person here who seems to be in good health. I'm taking her up to the roof. Have Virg winch down a rescue harness."

"F.A.B.," Scott replied. Then, thirty seconds later he added, "ETA Thunderbird Two, ninety seconds."

"F.A.B.," Alan acknowledged.

The woman, now quiet but trembling fiercely, allowed Alan to take her hand and lead her back into the stairwell. They made it up to Floor 6. Then to Floor 7. They were just rounding the corner of the stairs halfway to Floor 8 when the expected unexpected happened, as it nearly always does on rescues.

There was an aftershock.

The woman screamed and clung to Alan. He could feel her long nails digging through his uniform. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to the nearest corner and shoved her down, shielding her with his body.

"Alan, report!" Scott barked from the watch.

The floor continued to shake. In a blind panic, the woman squirmed out from under Alan and headed for the staircase.

"No!" Alan yelled to her, twisting his body to see where she'd gone.

There she was, only two steps up, and frozen in fear, gripping the handrail so tightly her knuckles were bleach-white with the force of it. Alan growled to himself and rose to full height, only minor tremors shaking their world. He was going to rescue this woman whether she liked it or not.

"Alan from Mobile Control, come _in_!"

But the floor beneath Alan's feet dropped out before he could even lift his wrist to respond.

* * *

When he woke, the first thing he did was look at his watch. It'd been at least two hours since the floor had collapsed beneath his feet. And Alan could feel without having to look, that his legs were completely trapped. He gave each an experimental tug, but even though they didn't hurt, they were well and truly stuck. Great, he thought with a groan. Just what I always wanted to do…be trapped under a bunch of rubble.

There was no sign of the woman he'd been trying to rescue when the aftershock hit. His thoughts turned more fully to her as he hit the SOS on his watch. She'd been rail-thin with a chopped-off-at-the-jawline haircut that was as blonde as his own hair was. Her features reminded him of a bird somehow, with a pointed nose like a beak, and angular features. She'd been scared out of her wits when she'd barreled into him and panic-stricken when she'd wriggled free of him in the stairwell.

He wondered if she was even more scared now. Or if she was even still alive.

"_Alan!_ Come in, Alan!"

The relieved but clipped voice of his eldest brother. "I'm here, Scott."

"Where are you? Are you hurt?"

"My legs are trapped but surprisingly I don't think anything's broken. Probably have a concussion of one degree or another." He looked all around him and felt a familiar ache at the base of his skull. "I can't tell where I am, only that there's a lot of concrete surrounding me and one pretty tipsy looking chunk of it that'll smash my face if it falls. So go gently, will ya?"

"On it, Al. We retrieved a woman who said she was with you in the stairwell when the aftershock hit."

Alan breathed a sigh of relief. The woman was alive.

"She managed to keep hold of a stairwell railing as the floor gave, and we grabbed her off it. I'm going to send Virgil and Gordon to that approximate area."

"What, you can't see me on the scanner?"

"If I could, you'd have been out of there as soon as you fell, Alan. Wait, hang on."

Alan could tell Scott was speaking to someone while holding his hand over Mobile Control's mic. He thought about what Scott had said, that the scanner hadn't picked him up, and wondered if maybe Brains' field scanner was blocked by things like rebar and concrete, in spite of his claims that it would penetrate these substances and much more. He decided to talk to Brains about that when he returned to Tracy Island.

"Okay, Alan, we have a geologist and an architect on-site, and they've consulted with Virgil about the location we're presuming you to be in. Apparently it's not just that one chunk of concrete that's teetering, but pretty much that entire area, because of the tunnel created by the Mole to rescue those survivors."

"Great. Hoist by my own petard." It was one of Penelope's favorite phrases, and he felt rather proud of himself for finding a way to use it in context.

"Nice try, kid, but if it's anyone's petard you got hoist by, it's Scott's. He's the one told you to take the Mole in in the first place."

"_John." _

Alan had to smile, knowing exactly what Scott's expression would have been at that moment.

"Okay," Scott continued after a moment, obviously exerting effort to get the conversation back on track. "Alan, we've got local equipment, Firefly and the DOMO headed your way."

"Hey, that's supposed to be my set of wheels."

"Well, why don't you crawl right out of that hole, then and get back to work!" Scott snapped.

But Alan knew the tone of voice behind the words…he knew Scott was worried about him. He didn't blame him. While most of Alan was confident in his brothers' abilities to get him out of this mess, there was still a part of him that wondered if his rescue career was going to be over so soon after it began.

His stomach grumbled, and Alan rolled his eyes. Really, here he was one foot away from Death's door, and his stomach wanted to protest?

"Alan, Virgil's estimating it be at _least_ three more hours before we can clear a path to you. Brains is recalibrating the scanner as we speak to try and get a precise fix on your location."

Alan groaned in disbelief. Three more hours? But it'd been two since the aftershock, and another three before that since they'd arrived on-scene. Add that to three hours of being stuck down here unable to move and it all added up to one very hungry man.

Alan's right hand dropped to his side, and when it did he heard a strange rustling sound. He felt around and discovered whatever had made it, was in his pocket.

"Oh, my God," he whispered as he tilted his pelvis, reached into his pocket and pulled out the energy bar Scott had given him. As he began unwrapping it he asked, "How did you know?"

"I didn't," Scott confessed. "But in the military you learn to plan for all the things you don't know. To fully expect and plan for the unexpected."

Scott sounded like he might be about to say something else, but hesitated before continuing.

"Dad taught me something when I was seventeen years old and got stranded out in the middle of nowhere because I ran out of gas."

"Huh?" Alan asked, mouth full of energy bar and not getting what the connection between car gas and his current predicament was.

"He told me never to wait until the tank was empty to fill it. He said, 'Always top it up when it's half full, son. That way you know you'll never run out.'"

And suddenly, Alan got it. He had only just eaten when Scott had given him the energy bar. Alan had seen no need for it whatsoever. But Scott had. Just like their dad telling him to fill up the tank when still half full, Scott had basically been telling Alan to have something on-hand to eat even if he was sure he'd be back before hunger got him.

Without that energy bar, Alan would've been running on lower than E energy-wise by the time his brothers got him out of there.

But when, two hours and fifty-seven minutes later, Alan was pulled from the rubble with only some scrapes and bruises to show for it, he was glad that the only problem he had was getting mob-hugged by Gordon, Scott and Virgil when his feet finally hit the ground. He squeezed Scott a little extra hard by way of thanks, and Scott understood, because he leaned down and whispered into Alan's ear, "Now you'll never question my orders again."

Alan looked cheekily at him, grinned and said, "Yeah, right."

Eh, the extra two hours having to wash down Thunderbird One were totally worth that one.

* * *

**WAY 16**

"Don't drink alcohol when you're tired, sad, or mad."

It had been…a rough day.

To put it mildly.

Jeff leaned back in his plush chair behind the desk in his personal study and let out a long, miserable sigh.

For one thing, he was exhausted. Just because he didn't physically go out on calls with his sons didn't mean he wasn't one hundred percent awake as long as they were out. And while his role may not have involved heavy lifting or the operation of huge machinery, it didn't mean that 82 hours of being alert, watchful and in ultimate command didn't exhaust him.

For another thing, he was saddened by the day's events. Not only had they nearly lost Thunderbird Two – and Virgil and Gordon right along with her – thanks to land subsidence in Guatemala two days earlier, but they'd all had to stand there and watch men, women, boys and girls be buried alive. Right there in front of their very eyes, with Jeff and John both watching remotely via one of Thunderbird Two's external cameras.

The sheer looks of terror on each and every face were etched into Jeff's memory. All that wonderful technology at their disposal, all the miracles his sons had already performed in the six years they'd been operating…and all of it meaningless when people chose to place their villages on unstable foothills. He knew the hundreds of screams which had lasted only seconds, would haunt his dreams for weeks.

And Jeff was angry. Angry at the people who died for building there in the first place, but even more angry at the government of their country, who'd been warned three decades earlier of the peril villages like this one near Chajul were in. And they had done _nothing_ to warn their own citizens that each and every day they remained on mountainsides and foothills, they grew nearer to disaster. They had undertaken no projects to shore up these locations, to help villagers help themselves. They'd simply said, this is the way it's always been here, who are we to tell the people where to live?

And now, by Jeff's reckoning, there were roughly ten thousand less people in Guatemala's population.

No, it wasn't the first time they'd all seen death on a massive scale, or even witnessed it happen right in front of them. In six years, all of them had seen an awful lot. But the Tracys weren't cold-hearted brutes. They weren't uncaring…or they wouldn't do what they did for a living. Each and every life was as dear to Jeff as their lives were to each other. A tiny baby crying as it flew from its mother's arms and got buried by mud. A toddler getting swept down the side of the hill while her mother screamed and tried to reach her…and then went down alongside her. A young man trying desperately to save his elderly parents, only to have their hands ripped from his by the indifferent cruelty of Nature.

In the rescue business, you got used to seeing things like this. But not _so_ used to it that it no longer affected you. These people weren't numbers, they were human beings. And all that had transpired in the last eighty hours had served to make Jeff three things: tired, sad and mad.

He sighed as he pulled a bottle of whiskey out from the bottom drawer of his desk, and the crystal tumbler that always sat there beside it. Maybe a drink would soothe him enough for him to be able to get some sleep now that his sons were home. Hell, maybe he'd just drink half the bottle and put himself in enough of a stupor that faces and screams wouldn't be able to invade his mind for the next few hours.

All he knew was that as tired as he was, he was too sad and too mad to go to bed just yet. So he took the cap off the bottle of whiskey and was just about to pour some of the amber liquid into his glass when a sound caught his attention. He looked up to find Alan making his way across the lounge toward his desk. Jeff watched as Alan plopped unceremoniously onto the settee. He waited for Alan to speak, but Alan said nothing. He didn't even look at his dad.

But Jeff knew his youngest, as he knew all his sons, and Alan was upset. Really, really upset. To the point where he'd sought his father out. That meant Alan needed some attention, right now. And hell, maybe talking things over with Alan would ease Jeff's emotions and mind enough to help them both.

Jeff put the cap back on the whiskey, opened his desk drawer and replaced it and the tumbler in their usual spots. Sometimes the soothing burn of whiskey sliding down your throat really was the best thing for what ailed you.

Sometimes, it was your son.


End file.
